


Confessions and Consideration: A Johnlock Smut with a Plot

by SByrdIsTheWord



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual, Asexual!Sherlock, Asexuality, Drugs, M/M, Masturbation, Sex, Slash, Smut, changing sexuality, nicotine addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:19:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SByrdIsTheWord/pseuds/SByrdIsTheWord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hears Sherlock getting off at 221B for an experiment. John then can't stop thinking of Sherlock, so he gets off at work. But what happens when John tells Sherlock his confession? Will his asexual flatmate have to take a new perspective into consideration?</p>
<p>My Fanfiction tumblr: justbeensherlocked.tumblr.com</p>
<p>Personal: sbyrdistheword.tumblr.com (I post a lot of Sherlock, Doctor Who, Wholock, fic recs, Johnlock, Benedict Cumberbatch, David Tennant, Matt Smith, Ecclesex, Head canons, Vintage stuff/people, steampunk, Alice in Wonderland, cakes, food, etc)</p>
<p>Originally Posted on Fanfiction.net: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7469424/1/Confessions_and_Consideration_Johnlock_Smut_wPlot</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Confessions and Consideration: A Johnlock Smut
> 
> Rating:R (awww yeaaaaaaah)
> 
> Pairing:BBC!John Watson and BBC!Sherlock Holmes
> 
> Summary: John catches Sherlock performing an interesting "hands-on" experiment when he returns home to the flat. After this encounter, he can't stop thinking about his flatmate. He even goes so far as to get off at work just to ease his mind. When he confronts Sherlock about the matter, he finds his flatmate has a confession of his own. The two must take into consideration what they never expected to come out of their relationship. After all, they needed the separate bedrooms...right?
> 
> Why should I bother reading this?: Good question. Unlike most smuts, my story has a pretty likable plot buildup to it. Also, unlike any BBC!Sherlock smut I've read (which would be all a lot of them), my story views Sherlock as a mainly asexual-identifying type. How can he be asexual in a smut? You'll see! Also, my story discusses how exactly their relationship forms, instead of just declaring it as an established relationship and only giving readers le sexy tiem. (Plenty of that, too, no fear!)
> 
> So, if this sounds like the right smut for you, read on and enjoy!

John exhaled, rubbing his eyes fervently, feeling individual capillaries break from his lack of sleep.  _Hopefully I'll manage to catch a quick nap before Sherlock drags me around for some new case he's probably-_

John's thinking was interrupted by a text. He rolled his eyes and pulls his phone out of his coat. As predicted, Sherlock had a new experiment. Surprisingly, though, he did not want John to return home instantly.

"Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do, then?" he sighed, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

He was too tired to deal with his demanding flatmate.  _I need sleep. Sherlock will just have to keep his experiment out of the bedroom,_  he convinced himself to return home.

John grabbed his bags and shut his office door behind him. "See you, Sarah," he smiled at his superior.

"Take care, John," she smiled back.

He made a mental note to talk to her more.

_After I get some sleep_ , he reminded himself as he yawned, trotting down the stairs and out into the crisp London air.

He pulled his coat in tighter, feeling the chilling wind bite down to his bones. He increased his pace, eager to finally pop into bed.

He fumbled for his key when he reached the door. "Gotcha!" he pulled it out and quickly let himself in. He jogged up the stairs quickly.

**Erk. Foomp. Errrrk.**

John stopped, not moving his foot. Were the stairs just squeaking and thumping, or-?

**Foomp. Foomp.**

"Definitely not the stairs," he mumbled.

"Mmph. Oh!" someone emitted some rather raunchy noises.

John recalled what Mrs. Hudson had told him when he moved in; Mrs. Turner  _did_  have married ones next door.

But these...noises sounded strikingly familiar.  _So what, John? You've heard people get off a few times? Now move your ass along and get to sleep._

He nodded, agreeing with his mind, and continued to hike up the stairs. He fetched his keys and opened the flat, welcoming the burst of warm air greeting him.

"Ah! Oh God yes!"

John froze. Those noises sounded close...too close. That couldn't be-?

"For SCI-Ah!-SCIENCE!" the voice let out a struggled groan.

That was definitely who he thought it was. John grimaced, not sure how to take his new discovery.

He slowly crept along the hallway, hoping he could inconspicuously sneak into his room.  _What Sherlock doesn't know won't-_

"Hello John," came the ragged voice from the other room.

"Shit," John cursed under his breath. "I was just, um, going to my room..." he cringed, awkwardly tried to stop the conversation.

"Oh, no need to be frightened. Just an experiment."

"Right, of course," John shook his head as he continued to his room.

He crashed on his bed, exhaling deeply, "Oh-kay." He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and let sleep overtake him.

When John woke up, Sherlock was nowhere to be found in the flat. Not that he was complaining.  _I'm sure he's off on a case, or some sort of...experiment._ He gulped. He hoped this type of experimentation wouldn't become a regular occurrence around the flat.

He shuddered, shaking his thoughts away. "Work time," he muttered decisively, grabbing his bag and swinging out the door.

"Morning," he breezed past Sarah and into his office, giving her not two seconds of reaction time before he shut his door.

He unpacked his bag and threw off his coat. "Work, work, work," he reminded his brain. He swung open his office door and gave a half-hearted smile to Sarah, who looked at him with equal interest and worry. He just smiled wider.

He returned to his chair and twiddled his thumbs. No matter what, though, he could not take his mind off the events from the previous day. The noises that came out of his flatmate...

He flexed his hand, tracing a line on his jeans. He couldn't keep this up. He decided he had to do something about this or he wouldn't be able to focus for the rest of the day.

He got up swiftly, walking to Sarah's office, tapping lightly on the door. "Can I have the key to the storage closet? Getting low on latex gloves, and I want to stock up before the clients start rolling in."

"Sure," she smiled, digging around in a drawer for a minute before producing the key. "The should be on the top right shelf."

"Great, thanks," he smiled, grabbing the keys and heading to the closet. Let's make this fast.

John quickly opened the closet and shoved himself inside. "Be patient," he implored his aching lower body. He ripped open his jeans, yanking them and his boxers down to the linoleum floor. He took a shaky breath as he took his throbbing cock in his hand and closed his eyes.

As he moved his hand up and down, pumping slowly, his mind was back at 221B, listening to the grunts and moans, oh god the  _moans_ , coming from Sherlock's room. He began pumping faster, breathing sharply. He could himself getting bigger, stiffer; he massaged every fold, every nerve. He wanted every single spot to reverberate with the pleasures in his mind as he thought of the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

He felt himself go weak, felt the sweat building up on every conceivable spot. He knew this couldn't last much longer. He staggered backwards, trying to maintain his balance while still working himself up. His breathing became more and more labored as he suppressed groans, letting out a few animalistic grunts.

As he felt himself nearing the edge, he reluctantly let go of himself.  _I don't want to have to clean up this whole closet,_  he winced at his fierce erection. He breathed deeply for the next two minutes, then carefully pulled his pants up over his raging bulge. "I'll finish this later," he mumbled to himself. "If Sherlock's still not home," he quickly added, remembering the entire reason for his awkward experience.

He finished dressing himself, grabbed a box of gloves, and used his clean hand to open the closet. He scampered out and into Sarah's office, silently smiling and handing her the key, hoping his lower region wasn't visibly noticeable and that his musty scent would not pervade the air.

He hightailed back to his own office, glad his mind was a bit clearer.  _Yep, Sarah certainly is a great boss, but one thing's for sure. Sarah Sawyer was certainly_ ** _not_** _the name in my head for the last couple of minutes._ He bit the edge of his lip at his realisation, laughing it off, and deciding to return to his thoughts later.

For now, though, he had to work. "Work, work, work," he muttered as he dropped the box of gloves on the counter. He leaned back in his chair and waited for the customers to come in, anxious to have some sort of distraction to get Sherlock off of his mind.


	2. Two

John let out a small sigh, glad to finally be done with work and returning to 221B.

 _I hope Sherlock isn't there_ , he added as a side thought. His mind returned to thoughts of his earlier experience, and God he could not  _wait_  to be back in his flat.

He opened the door hastily, hands sweating in anticipation. He shut it quietly behind him, standing at the foot of the stairs, listening for any indication of movement.

 _Nope, he's not experimenting today,_  John acknowledged with what could best be described as a bit of disappointment mixed with relief.

He released a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding as walked up the stairs. He opened the flat door, walking in slowly. He saw Sherlock sitting on the couch, staring intently at something that looked like a mutated body part on the coffee table.

"John," Sherlock acknowledged, not changing his line of sight.

John gulped, quietly choking out, "Sher-ahem, Sherlock."

"John." His flatmate didn't move. "You're...uncomfortable," Sherlock's eyebrow raised.

John lightly blew through his lips. This was going to be tough. He lightly set his bag down on the counter, then crossed his arms nervously. "I've been thinking, Sherlock."

"An improvement," Sherlock lightly smiled.

John bit his lip. Even in the most serious of moments, Sherlock had to be a smart ass. "About yesterday," he added slowly, straining to get the words out.

After a moment's silence, Sherlock twisted his position toward John, "What have you been thinking, John?"

John looked down, tracing the lines in the floor with eyes. Looking at anything other than Sherlock. "I just-" he sighed, trying to find the words.

_My hormones can only focus on you? How am I supposed to formulate this into a conversation?_

He took another deep breath, closed his eyes tightly, then opened them slowly as he looked up, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "I have not stopped thinking about yesterday," he laughed lightly, trying to cover his forwardness.

Sherlock visibly perked up, an almost bemused smile flitting across his face.

"I mean," John tried to reformulate his thoughts, "I just-can you just not do that again?" His voiced cracked on "that"; his brain and mouth moving in two very,  _extremely_  different directions.

"It was for an experiment, John," Sherlock slowly explained, furrowing his brows.

"Well," John gulped, "I hope your results were successful, but, please, no more experiments for a while, okay?" John turned around to head to his room, hoping to escape this conversation as soon as humanly possible.

"For science," Sherlock uttered the two words softly.

John stopped, shaking his head. He turned around, voicing his thoughts, "What?"

"I said 'for science,'" Sherlock stood up from his place, sliding his hands into his pockets, taking a step toward John.

"I heard you, yes, but what did you mean?" It was now John's turn to raise his brow, not exactly sure about or comfortable with where this conversation was going.

"Yesterday, during my experiment, I said 'for science,'" Sherlock took a few more steps toward his flatmate, emphasising his last two words with his hands.

"Yep, I was, um, I heard that," John loosened his jumper collar, wondering why Mrs. Hudson had turned on the heater.

"I was reminding myself, John," Sherlock.

"Why would you need to do that?" John backed towards the wall, not liking this turn Sherlock was taking.

"Exactly, John, exactly!" Sherlock shouted, pulling on his magnificent black curls as he spun around. He laughed anxiously, tsking himself, tapping his foot. "Why would Sherlock Holmes need to remind himself that an experiment was for  _science_? Do you know why?"

John shook his head nervously, watching anxiously as the gap between his flatmate and himself lessened.

"Because I was not thinking of science," Sherlock was standing right in front of John now.

John could feel the effects of their proximity working on his body. He was beginning to feel warmer and he was beginning to have strong recollections of the day's earlier events.

"I was not thinking of science, John," Sherlock's breath became ragged as his face neared John's.

John squirmed, pressing his face against the wall, knowing this position was not going to have anything but compromising effects on his body, especially his lower regions.

"I want to say, I want to  _believe_  that I got caught up in my experiment. God, do I want to convince myself of that."

John could feel Sherlock's breath on his skin. Every nerve sprung up, aching, needing to be touched. Every patch of skin screamed for attention. He reluctantly pushed himself harder against the wall, not wanting Sherlock to see what an effect he had on him, not wanting himself to believe it either.

"John," Sherlock breathed out shakily, "I was only thinking of you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this did not start as a full-fledged story. I just intended this to be something that showed a bit of insight into how John and Sherlock became a couple. 
> 
> I couldn't find many fics that didn't just have them as in an established relationship. I wanted to know why. In many ways, I was really writing this fic for myself.
> 
> But, now, I've decided that this story is going to be a bit more in-depth than I originally thought.  
> It's going to have a lot of plot, and that's what this chapter is all about. 
> 
> No smut here, sorry. But there is TONS coming up.
> 
> Enjoy, loves!

John shook his head, then forced himself away from the wall and his flatmate. "Sherlock, I-" he faltered. He grabbed his coat, glancing back just for a second to see Sherlock's eyes linger on his, then turn to the floor.

He swallowed roughly, biting his lip, then slipped into his coat, sneaking out the flat, feeling guilty for leaving Sherlock. The look on his face was enough to tear a hole in his heart. He chewed his lip, trotting down the rest of the stairs and out the door.

The cold London air hit John like a smack in the face.  _What are you even thinking? You don't even like males. This is just wrong. Sherlock is your flatmate, for God's sake. You are not allowed to think of any male like that, especially not Sherlock._

Then came that small voice in the back of his mind, the one that made him ask Mike Stamford who had also told him that he or she would never get a flatmate, the one that made him jump in and move in with Sherlock, the one that he simultaneously wished he could smother and embrace.

_Why? Why not? Sherlock obviously doesn't have a problem with it, and heavens knows your body doesn't._

"Because it's wrong, John!" He yelled out, startling a few passerby, some of them going so far as to cross the street. "I-" he bit his lip, dragging his hands down his face.

He exhaled deeply. When had he let these feelings get to him? When did he even develop these feelings?

He walked a few feet, shaking his head, then sat down on the sidewalk, pushing himself against the brick wall, resting his head on his knees.

He stayed like that for a long time, however many hours, he didn't really know. Time was the last thought on his mind. He watched the world go by, observing each person's gait, appearance, and conversations, wishing his life could be simple as theirs.

_All they are worried about is whether or not they will make the next tube or whether or not they will get home in time for their favorite telly show. None of them have to deal with this, none of them have feelings for people they shouldn't. There lives are in order, set, in fixed patterns._

He was being ridiculous. Of course everyone had problems in their lives. The majority of the world had problems bigger than he. He had seen hundreds in Afghanistan.

He buried his head between his knees. "Then why doesn't it feel like that? Why does it feel like every part of me is decaying?" He spoke from a surprisingly medical standpoint, considering the state of his emotions. He honestly wished he could find and apply a cure for his ailments.

Nothing had plagued him in this way since the war. Since the countless deaths, the ones he couldn't save, the ones he-

He squeezed his eyes tight. No. This was not the time. He could not further suck himself into this painful hole. He breathed in deeply, calming himself.

He opened his eyes to the dark streets of London. Barely anyone was walking about now. With hardly any one to observe and hardly anything off his mind, he resigned himself to going home.

...

He braced himself as he entered the flat, knowing the volatile state he had left Sherlock in and well aware of what that could have done to the man.

He closed the door slowly with a little click. He shrugged out of his coat, folding it and dropping it on the counter.

He walked a bit further into the flat, feeling as if he was encroaching on someone else's territory. He scanned the living room and kitchen for Sherlock. Nothing.

_Could he be in the bedroom? Oh, God, I hope-_

"Ahhh," a muffled sound came from across the living room.

 _Don't tell me he's started doing those sorts of experiments in the living room_ , John thought to himself as he edged toward the muffled noises, a morbid, unstoppable curiosity egging him on.

He peered over the couch to find Sherlock, thankfully, fully clothed.

"Sherlock, what are you doing on the ground?" the army doctor wondered aloud.

The head full of black curls bounced as Sherlock's head lolled toward him. "Five patch," Sherlock's eyes drooped, "problem," he curled into a ball, loosely hugging his legs to his body.

 _Five patches? He goes nearly mad on three, what's he doing?_  "Sherlock, let's get you up. What're you doing?" John voiced his thoughts as he crept behind the couch and bent toward the limp figure.

"Prob...lem," Sherlock barely formed the words.

John rolled his eyes, trying to hide his genuine fear for his flatmate.  _What for? He can't even see your face. Sherlock Holmes might be a sociopath, but one thing he's not is suicidal._ He shook his head, ridding himself of such thoughts, focusing on the problem at hand.

He scooped up the pale man with ease, almost too much. "Sherlock, when's the last time you ate? You barely weigh a stone!"

"Strong John," Sherlock's woozy body convulsed as he giggled.

John furrowed his brows as he carried Sherlock to his room. Sherlock melted out of his arms and onto the bed.

John turned around and walked out of the room. But, as he did, he could have swore he heard a soft "thank you" coming from the consulting detective.

He half-smiled to himself, sighing as he moved toward his own bed room. It had been a long day and there was more on his mind than he could handle right now.

He blew through his lips as his head hit the pillow, ready for some much-needed sleep.

_Who knows? I might even have this all figured out when I wake up..._


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter takes place a bit after The Blind Banker and is a bit in an Alternate Universe just since John has not yet been to Sarah's house in my story.

Sherlock shook his head, ruffling his curly black hair as he lifted himself off the pillow with great effort. He couldn't tell exactly what was pulling him down, be it the lasting nicotine patch effects, his usual sleep deprivation (two hours today, less than the usual), or these new thoughts-

"No, that's not it, no," he wiped his face with his cold hand and let out a sigh. "Off to work," he set his jaw in a line and struggled over to the closet. He blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting to the blinding fluorescent light. He picked out a blue suit with a white button-up shirt, nothing special, deciding that his outfit was actually the least of his worries today.

Within just a few minutes, he had washed up, changed, swung into his coat, and grabbed his cell phone.

"Here we go," he muttered as he trotted out of his Baker Street flat and towards New Scotland Yard. He walked in comfortable silence, enjoying his the solitude he had grown accustomed to when walking the London streets at such an hour.

Despite being so eternally rushing, he did sometimes like to escape his boredom by walking early in the morning. There were usually no texts from Lestrade, calls from Mycroft, or even passerby he had to deal with. He felt, almost, at peace when he was alone.

His mind flitted from one thing to another as he mentally scanned his to-do list.  _Obtain the crime scene samples from Scotland Yard. See if there are any interesting cases. Go back to the flat and test the samples._ He sighed.  _Dull._

Yet, often, the gift of silence was easily translated to a curse. When it was too silent, his mind had recently started to wander from where it needed to be. He all ways told others he only kept vital information on his hard drive, but that didn't mean that petty ideas such as easy cases or emotions, even, couldn't slip into his brain every so often.

He kicked the leaves up, watching them fall down to the street only to be rustled by London's biting wind. If there was one thing that worried Sherlock Holmes, it was mismanagement of his brain. He needed his command center to be solely focused on the task at hand, but right now it was doing anything but that.

His thoughts were interrupted by the dinging of a bicycle bell. He jumped out of the way of the cyclist, scowling at having his silence shattered. He looked up, noticing that he had arrived at New Scotland Yard. He glanced down at his watch, seeing that it had only taken him thirty minutes to walk there.

He grabbed the jangling keys he had pick-pocketed from Lestrade and shoved open the door. He passed by the familiar receptionist area and sauntered into the lab. He scanned rows of carefully labeled evidence, sneering at the thought of the forensic "professional" who had-usually wrongly, he might add-labeled the many ziploc bags and tupperware containers.

"Ah, there we are," he recognized the bag of white powder only by the date of the crime.  _Guess it's good that I read the obituaries in the paper the other day. I'll have to tell John not to cancel it just yet. Oh, Anderson, will you ever learn how to properly label evidence?_ He scowled, the mere thought of the man putting him off. He held up the bag, examining it in the light coming through the window.  _This is clearly_ ** _not_** _table salt-the fool! That's_ ** _obviously_** _why the murderer used it for this particular victim. How is Anderson one of the top forensic officers? He clearly knows nothing. If he were the victim, he would've died, too, the idiot. Would serve him right._

He pocketed the bag, deciding he might as well go back to the flat and do a flame test to reassure Lestrade that Anderson had-as usual-made a mistake and Sherlock had, naturally, fixed it.  _What would New Scotland Yard even_ ** _do_** _without me? Maybe John was right in taking that check from Moran; I should receive some sort of pension, at least, from these people, considering I constantly do their jobs._

He exhaled deeply, his eyes bulging and knees shaking a bit from his lack of sleep as he started back to the flat.

...

John yawned and stretched his arms up high, then twisted to the left and to the right, cracking his bones. He rolled his head from the left to the right and then back again, shrugging his shoulders as he did so. After a few more minutes of blinking, he finally felt ready to start the day.

He shuffled into the kitchen, avoiding the various body parts strewn about, finally reaching the refrigerator. He sighed before he even opened it, his mind and growling stomach knowing there would be few, if any, consumable foods or drinks in there. He swung open the door to find, as he expected, packets of what could be anything from human fingers to beige fish. He sifted through the mounds of Sherlock's latest experiment's subjects to find, much to his surprise, a loaf of bread and a jar of strawberry jam sitting untouched in a corner.

He pulled the two items out carefully, as if they would disappear if he removed them from where they were too fast. "When did we buy strawberry jam and bread?" he mused aloud. Ever since he got into a row with the chip-and-pin scanner at the shop, he hadn't remembered going to the store, and he would have remembered buying something edible, especially strawberry jam.

He examined the bread and jam and, once satisfied that neither was poisoned for an experiment or molded from expiring, popped the former into a toaster. He leaned against the counter, rubbing his thumb over the sink's smooth metal.

"Oh," he retracted his hand slowly, his fingers curling up near his chin. He had brought the bread and jam home from the "welcome to work" breakfast party Sarah had thrown him. He felt guilty for not remembering that immediately. What with all these crazy feelings he had been developing, he had let even the simplest of facts slip by him-and it bothered him to no end. It was as if forgetting where the bread and jam had come from symbolized him forgetting, in a way, his feelings toward Sarah and women in general.

When he had examined the passerby, he had also tried to find attractive women, but he only saw one or two that he felt remotely attracted to in the hours he sat there. Even those two, he had to admit, were not as attractive as they would have been to him in the past.

He sighed, then sniffed the air curiously, wondering why it was thickening. "Shit, the bread!" he yelled, turning around, unplugging the toaster as fast as he could, then grabbing the nearest, cleanest oven mitts and running to the flat window, dumping the toast out as fast as he could. He looked down to see a very startled Sherlock.

"It's not everyday that it rains toast, John," his flat mate laughed from below.

John smiled, his heart beating quicker and aching in that just Sherlock's pronunciation of his name could make him so happy.

He felt the heat coming through the thin gloves and ran back to the kitchen, carefully placing the toaster on the counter between two jars of what could be past experiment parts. He ignored his grumbling stomach and shoved the jam and bread back into their corner of the fridge.

He walked out of the kitchen just as he heard the flat door click. He turned around to see Sherlock and couldn't help but offer a little smile to him. "Where've you been, then?"

Sherlock, unlike when he was outside a moment ago, looked stoic. He tossed a plastic bag filled with a white grainy substance and a set of keys onto the counter, then hung up his coat. "New Scotland Yard."

"When'd they decide to give you keys?" John raised a brow.

Sherlock pulled down the edge of his suit jacket, then looked up at John, "They didn't." He brushed past his flat mate and into the kitchen, grabbing a lighter, then heading over to the coffee table by the couch. He sat down with a deep sigh, setting up a metal stand with a clamp that he put a popsicle stick in.

"I guess that's not salt, right?" John felt and tried to ease the new tension, frustrated that Sherlock could go from being a normal, happy person with emotions to this mad scientist of sorts. What really bugged him more, though, was that he was undeniably attracted to such a man.

"No," Sherlock replied curtly, a bit bitterly.

"Okay," John shook his head and returned to the kitchen, deciding to just grab a piece of cold bread to eat with some jam. He prepared his small breakfast in silence, mulling over his thoughts and feelings. He sighed, biting into his sandwich, then turned around to find Sherlock looking at him.

His breath hitched and he gulped down the rest of his sandwich.  _All right, it's time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me for keeping this cliffhanger-ish ending pattern going! I love you, my lovely readers. :)
> 
> What I hope you guys noticed:
> 
> At times, Sherlock and John might have seemed a bit out of character in this chapter.
> 
> Why should the great and intelligent Sherlock Holmes need to prove he's right to anyone, especially to Lestrade and/or Anderson? Well, maybe it's out of boredom. Or, maybe it's because his feelings toward John have had such an effect on him that he is transforming a bit, in little ways, as a person. (Sorry I am just kind of a massive fangirl of their relationship. :D)
> 
> John, too, does something a bit out of character. Instead of dumping the burnt toast into the trash bag and bringing it outside or even running to the outside garbage cans, John goes and throws toast out of the window. No self-respecting soldier, army doctor, much less, would be so distraught under pressure. Go back and scan what he was thinking about when that happened. That's right, Sherlock. See a connection?
> 
> So, feel free to give me some advice; I shall still consider it despite the fact that I have chosen to, from now on, try to write more for myself.
> 
> Lots of love!


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John starts to tell Sherlock how he feels, and Sherlock has a mixed reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two important notes to make.
> 
> In another chapter, Sherlock mentions how he should have accepted a check from Moran. I know what you're thinking: why would Sherlock accept money from Jim Moriarty's sniper? Well, that's not what I meant. When I first heard about the MorMor or Jim x Seb ship, I thought Sebastian from The Blind Banker was Sebastian Moran. So, as soon as possible, I will go edit that line to be "Sherlock should have accepted the check from his friend Sebastian."
> 
> Another important note. I say in my story that John and Sherlock's bed rooms are on the same floor. I know that's not BBC Sherlock's canon, but I needed it to be this way for the story to work.
> 
> Thanks! Read on!

"Sherlock?" John bit his lip. "Can we talk?"

"Well it's a bit late now," Sherlock raised a brow.  
"How do you mean?" John cocked his head.  
"Because you're all ready talking..." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

_Oh I could smack that smirk right off his face,_ John bit his tongue. "I'm serious," John moved to the couch and plopped down. He looked down, gulping and twiddling his thumbs. "I think I'm having," he swallowed, taking a heaving sigh, "sexual feelings toward you."

Sherlock snerked, but soon turned his scoff into a cough when he saw John's face. It was his turn to swallow uncomfortably now. "Bit not good?"

John chewed his lip and shot him a death glare.

Sherlock looked just as hurt at his comment as he sat down on the chair opposite John.

"Why did you do that?" John stared blankly ahead.

"Do what?" Sherlock furrowed his brows.

" _Scoff_  at me," John said pointedly.

"Well, it was a perfectly  _sound_  deduction, but it was, as your deductions tend to be, more than a bit  _obvious._ "

John shifted in his chair, using every ounce of his willpower to not punch Sherlock.

"You know, Sherlock, I'm not  _stupid,_ " John had to pause to steady his voice, "and I, unlike you, have  _emotions,_ " John let out a deep exhale.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, his eyes closing slowly. After a moment, he breathed out shakily, "I'm scared, John. You  _do_  have emotions, and I  _usually_  don't. Yes, of course, this is hard for you, but imagine-imagine, John-how hard this is for  _me,_ " he barely whispered. Sherlock composed himself, "I don't  _have_ relationships. I don't interact with  _people,_ " he spit out, his eyes shooting open. "And I certainly don't think of anyone as I get off during an experiment!" Sherlock yelled, clenching his nails tightly into his palms. He buried his head in his hands and tried to breathe deeply.

John could see that his flat mate was so unstable, so vulnerable. Sherlock was literally holding back  _tears_  and he, John Watson, was the one Sherlock let see.

_He's right. I_ _have  _ _been selfish. This could change his entire_ _identity._ _It would only change one part of me._  He sighed, shaking his head,  _Well, Sherlock isn't the most selfless person ever, now is he?_

But he winced at his thoughts. John knew how much this man needed him. And he was beginning to see just how much he needed Sherlock, too.

He looked over at his flat mate clearly now, seeing his lip trembling, his fingers nervously picking at the armchair, the sweat dotting his brow. It wasn't just John who was terrified and uneasy. No, he had even reduced the great Sherlock Holmes to this state of unrest.

"Sherlock...?" John started slowly.

Sherlock just drummed his fingers on his head.

"I'm...sorry?" It was more of a question than a statement, as words and thoughts had fled from John as concern took over him. "We can..." he trailed off, staring up at the ceiling, searching for answers. He didn't know what to say or how to say it. All he knew was that he wanted to comfort Sherlock.

So he did the best thing he felt like he could do. He got up, walked over to Sherlock, and rested a hand on his back.

Sherlock slowly sat up, head still hanging. He exhaled deeply, then looked up at John.

He stood up, letting John's hand fall off his back, and faced the shorter man. His brows furrowed and his blue eyes scanned John's face, searching for something, but he seemed unsure of what. His lips spread into a soft smile. He took a deep breath, then kissed John's cheek.

He closed his eyes as he moved his head back to see John's reaction. He opened them to see John lightly touching where Sherlock had kissed him, tracing the spot with his forefinger. Sherlock gave John another light smile, then turned around, grabbing his bag of white powder before heading to his room.

John slowly let his arm drop, his brain still processing his flat mate's actions. He sat down on Sherlock's chair with a harrumph. He strummed his fingers along the arm of the chair and slowly smiled.

_Well_ ,  _I told him how I feel,_  he nodded, pleased with himself.  _He and I just need to sort ourselves out before we discuss this further,_ he resolved. Satisfied with the day's events thus far, but eager to rest, he shut his eyes and drifted off to sleep.


End file.
